


and, breathless, she did make power breathe forth

by betony



Category: The Immortals - Tamora Pierce, Tortall - Tamora Pierce
Genre: Alternate Universe, Canonical Reanimated Army, Gen, Obscure Unpopular Women
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-09
Updated: 2013-02-09
Packaged: 2017-11-28 16:08:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/676304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/betony/pseuds/betony
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Daine approaches, all Varice can think of to say is: “I don’t deserve this.”</p><p>“Don’t you? We’re not so different, you and me.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	and, breathless, she did make power breathe forth

**Author's Note:**

> This is a selection from a larger AU I've been plotting, written after I realized (a) that given the pre-canon divergences therein, _Emperor Mage_ could not possibly happen as in canon and (b) that there are next to no fics about Varice Kingsford, despite her precarious position in Imperial politics, not to mention her shaky relationship with Daine. And so this rather wrote itself. Constructive criticism welcome as always.  
>  Title is a rearranged quote from Shakespeare's _Anthony and Cleopatra_.

The night the Tortallans dock in Thak’s Gate, Varice wakes in the middle of the night to find a girl sitting on the edge of her bed. 

At first she thinks it’s only Safiya, resting for a few minutes before returning to the slaves’ quarters, but the moonlight shifts and Varice can clearly make out brown curls and rosy cheeks. A Northerner, then. Some Tortallan maid who’s taken a wrong turn coming back from the baths, which still doesn’t explain why, in the name of all the gods, she had to stumble into _here_ , of all places. Varice sits up and tries not to sound as irritable as she feels as she prepares to give very simple and very detailed directions to the guest staterooms for what must be at least the thousandth time. 

“Girl. Are you lost?” 

”Not really.” The girl shrugs. “Just wanted to see you, I s’pose.” Her blue-gray eyes are very sad. “I’ve heard so much.” 

Varice frowns at that. “You have? From whom?” 

The only response is a shake of the head and a half-hearted smile. “Does it matter?” 

_Yes,_ Varice wants to say, because heavens, of course it does; but the mysterious girl is sliding off the bed to stand over her and it startles her back into silence. 

“I remember enough not to call this a gift,” says the girl. “You’ll have to be happy with that.” 

“What—“ 

“I’m so sorry,” the girl whispers, and bends down to very gently kiss her on the forehead. That simple touch oozes into her lungs, slides down her bones like ice. Varice shudders, and closes her eyes, and when she opens them, the girl is gone. 

On the night the Tortallans dock in Thak’s Gate, Varice sleeps soundly because she must. 

She has a busy day ahead of her and can hardly afford the distractions. In the morning, the Tortallans will awake to the palace, and they must be entertained throughout all the days of the peace talks. Varice’s head must only be full of plans for parties and plays and other shows of Carthak’s prosperity and power. 

She sleeps all the night through, certainly with no interruptions or visitors or bizarre conversations, because after years of angling on the Emperor’s part, of prayer and hoping on Varice’s, the Tortallan delegation is here. 

And Arram had not been among them. 

* * *

Varice spends the Emperor’s reception hovering on the sidelines, waiting for a catastrophe that never comes. His Imperial Majesty is in a fine humor today, it seems, and other than the rare jabs he can’t seem to stifle, she’s able to direct them all through the rest of the ceremonies without any arguments or duels of honor breaking out. 

One by one, with a subtle prompt from Varice, the ministers approach their Tortallan equivalents, and, looking around the room of well-fed, chattering dignitaries, Varice doesn’t need to see the Emperor’s quick smile in her direction to know that today is a triumph. 

And so it should; it certainly comes with a price. Perhaps because of her—absolutely uninterrupted, thank you very much—sleep last night, her temples are pounding. Surely the reception can manage itself, Varice finds herself thinking, much to her own surprise. 

Lindhall Reed is in attendance today, too, and that, even more than the headache, is more than enough to induce Varice to flee as soon as she can. Her former teacher has hardly said more than a dozen words to her in the last few years, and that’s counting “please” and “thank you” and “good evening, Lady Varice,” but that’s hardly surprising: Arram was always his favorite. 

In the corridors outside, Varice stumbles into the girl once again. 

“You!” she breathes, and pushing down the wave of rising panic, “Girl! Just what did you mean by that nonsense last night?” 

The girl frowns. “I have a name, you know. It’s Daine.” 

“And I’m Varice Kingsford, it’s very nice to meet you,” says Varice, the good manners her mother drilled into her overcoming her exasperation and even her lofty position at the Imperial Court. “Do you have an explanation, or should I take it up with your master or mistress?” 

Daine stares at her for a startled moment and laughs. “You can try. I don’t think they’ll make much of it, mind.” 

Varice does not believe in intentionally causing trouble for anyone. No more, however, does she believe in deliberate insubordination to this degree. She frowns. “Won’t they?” 

“No,” says Daine, and once again, those uncanny eyes of hers are so old and so tired, “I bring a message for you, Varice Kingsford, to do with as you see fit: Carthak has lost the favor of the gods. Do what you can to stop this, or watch it burn.” 

* * *

When, later that night, the sound of footsteps behind her brings her out of a brown study, Varice supposes she shouldn’t be surprised. After all, in the disruption of her thoughts, she had fled to the Imperial Aviary, where the few birds remaining might bring her some peace, and it is only to be expected that the Emperor himself should have the same idea. 

She turns to look at him, and finds it is only Ozorne there instead. He is frowning at a dead bird beside the bench on which she sits, and she pities him. 

Varice likes Ozorne. She doesn’t like what he does, she doesn’t like his obsession with power and conquest and control, but she likes who he once was: one of the two bright, shining boys she had befriended as a girl at the University. She likes that, unlike everyone else, all he ever asks of her is what she is willing to give. She likes that on long sleepless nights when she mulls endlessly on the way things were, someone else realizes what they all lost when Ozorne chased Arram away. 

So instead of smiling and pretending nothing is wrong as she would with anyone else, Varice says: “Don’t do this, Ozorne.” 

“What?” His voice is entirely too pleasant. “Mourn my birds? I agree it grows rather maudlin after a while, but I thought you at least would be more sympathetic, Varice.” 

Her head is pounding again. “ _Don’t_ ,” Varice growls, “insult my intelligence.” 

Ozorne freezes, as though struck by the thought, then nods. “I would indeed be a fool to do that, old friend. But indulge me, please; what would you have me stop?” 

“Tearing the gates between the realms,” Varice lists desperately, “scheming with immortals, inciting war with Tortall—“ 

“Tortall is a grasping giant that seizes every treasure it can find: control of the Inland Sea, the good favor of our neighbors, even the Dominion Jewel. I can either cut their aspirations down to size now, or wait until they clamor at Carthak’s borders for more.” 

Varice sighs; there's not much she can say to counter that particular claim. "If nothing else, remember to honor the gods, Ozorne." 

Ozorne does not reply. For a moment, Varice believes she’s gotten through to him, and it is this that leads her to make her great mistake: 

“I miss him, too,” she confesses. “But Arram isn’t worth this.” 

\--his face goes blank; he is the Emperor Mage of Carthak once more. 

“We implore you, Varice Kingsford, to remember your place. Your services to the imperial throne have been substantial, and we should be loathe to see such a sharp, inglorious end to such a remarkable career.” 

After Ozorne has gone, some terrible impulse leads Varice to pick up the dead bird . She knows as she does that it is an awful idea; the Emperor’s best mages and healers have not been able to determine what ails the creatures and it is entirely likely that it is transmissible to humans and oh, look, even her fingers itch as they brush against it, surely that’s never a good sign— 

It gives a sudden sharp cry and starts to flutter its wings madly. 

Varice drops it back onto the floor and ignores its squawk of protest and the way it hops away to join its fellows. She is too frightened even to scream. Instead she crawls backwards, crab-like and undignified, away from the bird that is alive and ought not to be, the bird that is alive because she touched it. 

All things considered, she is not altogether surprised when her back meets the glass walls and she finds herself staring at blue-gray skirts before her. Daine squats down so they are face to face with one another. 

“Told you it wasn’t a gift,” she says. 

* * *

Varice suffers through the next few days. 

She flirts lightly with Duke Gareth as the delegation tours the palace, laughs and oohs and ahs in all the right places as the Lioness describes her adventures, and wears long silken gloves at all times despite the heat. 

Young Kaddar approaches her afterwards, mildly observes that she’s looking rather pale, and asks kindly if she doesn’t want him to take on some of her responsibilities so she can rest; but he has always been a sweet boy. In so many ways she sees the potential of what Ozorne could have been, and so she has risked the wrath of both Ozorne and his sister to mold Kaddar into the future ruler Carthak deserves. 

Now she even wonders if Carthak even deserves a future. 

Back in her rooms, she toys with the idea that she is simply hallucinating Daine, before she reasons that her mind would surely conjure up far more dashing and attractive illusions who would say nicer things. A pity, that; it would have been preferable to have gone mad than to find the ruin of Carthak imminent. 

But what other choice has she? Daine explained the basics of Varice’s new ability during their brief rendezvous in the aviary, but bringing the dead back to half-life won’t do a thing to save Carthak. Perhaps they mean her to walk the desert after the disaster comes, restoring life to those she can, but even that is useless. Her abilities don’t last very long; she’s made sure of that. When she went back to the aviary to examine the bird she’d reanimated, she found it lying motionless by the bench once more. 

All that is left to Varice now is to wait. 

Stormwings descend upon the peace talks, and Varice mildly inquires what dietary considerations, if any, they’ll need. 

Lightning strikes the imperial statues, and Varice begins to interview sculptors to create replacements. 

Zernou’s statue walks, and Varice forces herself to focus on diverting the guests’ panic and keeping Kaddar from compromising himself. 

The cake is her only source of joy. 

It must be exquisite, she decides, particularly if there is no joy to be found in Carthak after that. She goes over the plans with the pastry cooks again and again, shaping the model palace with the curve of the sun to invoke Mithros’ blessings, and presses tiny crescent moons into the walls for the Goddess. The Graveyard Hag is represented by a tiny hyena to the side of one of the buildings, and so on, until the entire pantheon has their tokens to appease them. 

_Hear my prayer,_ Varice chants again and again as she puts the pieces together, _save Carthak._

“Lady!” one of the pastry chefs shouts, and Varice blinks to find the south wall of the pastry palace sliding towards the floor. 

“No!” snaps Varice, and with the lightning-fast reflexes for which the kitchen staff so admires her, she whips out a tendril of her Gift to catch it. She won’t let anything go wrong. The cake being ruined means using more flour and milk and eggs to replace it, all provisions that could be going to the famine-struck countryside instead. It means her pleas have gone unheard. 

And of course it all comes to nothing at the banquet that night, anyway. Ozorne lets her cut the cake, and rats spill out instead. Ozorne frowns, and dignitaries swear, and Varice, still limply clutching her knife, understands the gods’ answer. 

People forget about Varice most of the time. They forget that she was a foreigner accepted into the University of Carthak through sheer brains and talent. They forget that Arram Draper fell in love with her and Prince Ozorne welcomed her into the circle of his companions. They forget that the only reason she still wears a novice’s white robe is by her own choice, to emphasize that unlike the black robes who want to boast of their expertise to the world, Varice respects how much else there is to learn. 

The tiny sky-blue darts of her Gift find their targets in each rat’s heart, and Varice, numb with rage and fear and despair, trembles. “Enough,” she roars, because otherwise she would faint from terror, and also because she wants Daine and Ozorne and whoever else is listening to know that she can bear no more. “Enough!” 

* * *

Midnight finds her on the empty terrace again, picking up the rats’ corpses and weeping over every one until they scurry from her hands. 

When Daine approaches, all she can think of to say is: “I don’t deserve this.” 

“Don’t you? We’re not so different, you and me.” 

“No.” Varice bites the word out with all the venom in her heart. “No, we are _nothing_ alike. Do you think I am honestly so blind and so foolish not to realize that the work of the gods when someone appears in and out of nowhere as you do and—oh!“ 

A flash of memory jostles free in Varice’s brain. Even in Carthak, there have been rumors of Arram’s success: prized pet mage of the King of Tortall. Master of all the words of power. Lover to a goddess. 

And this, it seems, is she. 

”I am nothing like you,” Varice repeats. “Arram at least must have convinced you of that.” 

Daine shakes her head. “I didn’t mean that—well, that is, you’re right about Numair. Arram. But what I meant to say was—“ She breaks off, bites her lip, and starts again. “Varice Kingsford. That’s not really much of a Carthaki name, is it, Varice Kingsford?” 

“No,” says Varice stiffly, clinging to what’s left of her dignity. “My parents were shopkeepers, from Tusaine.” 

“And you left them behind, to go and study at the University. They were that proud to hear of your progress, and your da was fair certain you were going to marry one or the other of those two boys you kept writing about, no matter how much you tried to remind him you were there for more important things. It drove you near mad, didn’t it? Until that night they stayed a bit too long at their shop to close up, and the neighborhood’s bullyboys remembered your ma and da had refused to pay their protection fees and burned the place down, with them in it.” 

Daine’s face shows, at most, faint interest, as though the events of that terrible summer was only a piece of gossip about what sort of gown Lady Rabia had worn at dinner that night, but what else but incomprehension of the human heart could one expect from a goddess? 

“I didn’t kill the—the perpetrators,” insists Varice. Not even Arram and Ozorne know exactly what happened when Varice went back home to settle her family’s affairs; on her return, she had only wearily told them both that she didn’t care to discuss the matter and neither dared ask again. 

“No, you didn’t,” Daine agrees. “You didn’t kill them because you wanted much worse than death for them—and then you hunted them down like dogs and made sure they got it.” 

The truth of that statement hangs between them for a long moment, and Varice wants to tear her throat out for it. 

“Well done. You know the very worst of my secrets. I can rip and tear and break more easily than I can take a breath, and I chose—I choose to make things beautiful instead. You won’t take that from me.” 

Daine huffs out a breath—a gesture more suited to horse than human. “You don’t see it at all,” she grumbles. “Let me tell you a story, Varice. There was a girl in Galla, a century or two ago. She came back home one day to find her ma and her grandda dead at the hand of bandits, and lost herself running with wolves, the better to take her revenge, and in the end, the men and women of Snowsdale shot her down to protect their animals and themselves. The girl woke up in the Black God’s realms, and when her father came for her, she thought that was the end of it. But it wasn’t. The gods had made plans for her, and they never forgave her for escaping her destiny. So instead they set her to leading others down the path that only she should have to walk.” 

Varice looks at her helplessly. 

“Like I said,” Daine says gently, “we’re not so different, you and me.” 

* * *

When she hears the news, Varice drops the list of ingredients for the concluding banquet and rushes to the Emperor’s private audience rooms. Too late; Kaddar is already there, arguing loudly with his uncle and likely doing more than enough to seal his fate. _Go,_ Varice mouths at him, _I’ll take care of this,_ and for once, miraculously, he obeys. 

When they’re alone, and he is Ozorne again, Varice says hoarsely, “You can’t kill them.” “

I am Emperor Mage of Carthak. I can do as I please.” 

“They came under the protection due ambassadors. The Northerners will never forgive you for it, and our allies will join them.” 

Ozorne sneers. “Poor, naïve dear. They were conspiring against me, and such will face my justice. Zernou himself pointed them out to me.” 

“That’s not—“ “

You begged me before to honor the gods, Varice. Why do you now order me to ignore their signs?” 

It is easy enough to follow his logic: executing the Tortallans will mean war with Tortall. War with Tortall will mean invasion into the heart of Tortall. Invasion into the heart of Tortall will mean Arram, and vengeance. 

Varice understands the hunger for revenge; the familiarity of how it burns under the skin is why, perhaps, she has stayed so long by Ozorne’s side, even if the target of his anger is the man she once loved. But this? This sacrifices all of Carthak for one man’s vendetta. 

“My friend,” Varice breathes, “you have damned us all.” 

Ozorne, unsurprisingly, doesn’t care for that much. 

“Leave us,” he snaps. “Now.” 

As always, she obeys. Once she might have argued further, but today she can already see it would be worthless. 

At sunset, Varice sits at her window and makes herself listen to the traitor’s bells that signify the execution scheduled for the morning. _Thus, always, to the enemies of Carthak!_ she recites along with the guards in the courtyard. Her eyes are dry. 

Daine comes to her and takes her hands. “It’s time.” 

* * *

Varice weeps at the head of the army, as they destroy everything beautiful she has wrought. The tapestries, the windows, the vases of flowers placed to attack the eye—all gone, all shattered. The Tortallans might be ravenous and uncultured, as Ozorne has always described them, but their retinue—the other victims of Ozorne’s growing paranoia, brought reanimated by Varice’s contemptible divine blessing—are no less terrible, and with every step she takes, Varice feels herself going down in history a monster. 

Daine joins her again at the Hall of Bones. She doesn’t say where she’s been, but when, later, Varice hears that rats and other vermin overran the palace at the same time as her army, she will be able to guess. 

“I would have thought you’d use these,” Daine says, gesturing at the ancient skeletons around them. “I know I would, if I had my druthers.” 

Be that as it may, Varice knows the stories of the Graveyard Hag. ”If the gods demand this job of me,” Varice grits out, “then I’ll do it right.” 

Daine shrugs, but walks beside her the rest of the way as they ransack the palace 

They run Ozorne to ground in the menagerie, spent of all his Gift fighting off the reanimated army. They’re not the only ones; Kaddar stares aghast, caught between ridding Carthak of the Emperor Mage or protecting his uncle and himself from her unearthly army. In the end he chooses this: to warn the Emperor that abdication and imprisonment is the only choice the gods have left him. 

Ozorne only manages a half-hearted sneer in response and brandishes the silver feather the Steelwing gave him at the banquet and, as Daine mutters an oath, Varice thinks of several things at once— 

The Steelwing’s response was barely contained amusement rather than terror at Ozorne’s proclamation—wholly inappropriate, unless there was more to his gift than even Ozorne had guessed. She knows quite well there are worse things than death in the world. She has always been fond of Ozorne in her own way. 

—and acts. 

Before steel touches skin, a barb of light blue Gift hits the Emperor Mage square in the chest with the precision and the reflexes they still revere in the kitchens of Carthak. 

Daine lets out a low whistle. ”That’s certainly taken care of him,” and the sound is jarring in the silent hall. When Varice doesn’t respond, Daine jerks her hands, and the terrible army goes inert again. 

Kaddar is crouched on the floor, studying his uncle’s body; Lindhall—where had he come from?—is striding into the room to repair the damaged enclosures with his Gift. Neither of them remark on her presence, or Daine’s, and Varice can’t muster up the energy to think how to explain if they did. 

“Tell your prince the Hag fancies flowers,” whispers Daine. “You wouldn’t think it, but she does.” Then she kisses Varice on the forehead once more (oh, how clever to take away Varice’s ability before she could think to use it on the man who was once her friend), and, with one last gleam of silver light, leaves her there in the ruins of the menagerie, with the body of a dead emperor and a confused new emperor before her, and questions upon questions buzzing behind her from the Tortallans, now that they no longer have anything to hack to pieces. 

So much there is to take in and all Varice can focus on is this: _Daine’s learned enough, then, not to apologize this time. Good for her._

* * *

“Kaddar,” Varice says days later, again despairing of his gentleness. “Dear heart. Do you really think your ministers will let me live after this?” 

“It wasn’t your fault!” Kaddar blusters. “I’ll explain everything, you’ll see, they’ll have to understand!” 

“Because you are the Emperor of Carthak, and they nothing to your strength?” Varice asks wryly. As he splutters, she continues, “No. I intend better for you than to be your uncle reborn. It’s better this way. I’ll fade away, and someday you’ll only think of me as something to frighten your children into behaving.” 

“But—“ 

She ignores his protests and keeps walking away. He will miss her for a few days, at most, but then the need to rebuild his capital and to make amends with Tortall will divert his attention. The fact that Varice saved them, broke them out of their cells, will count for much with Jonathan and Thayet; she hopes it will be enough, but that is her concern no longer. 

Daine stops her at the Eastern Gate. Varice likes it better here; the devastation from the palace can’t be seen or heard. The few people she meets greet her with a smile instead of avoiding her notice. Yes, it’s so much easier to breathe beyond the palace walls. How had she never noticed before? 

“Stay,” Daine says. “There’s so much more good you can do.” 

“Is that a command?” 

“A request. Carthak has need of joy and beauty, these days.” 

Carthak might have need of her, but she does not need Carthak. Varice raises her eyebrows. “Do the gods wish this of me?” 

“They--do. So return. Live in peace.” 

Varice looks at her and laughs. 

“It’s kind of you to lie. But I've lived too long under Ozorne, suiting things to his tastes and his purposes, and to do the same under Kaddar? No. I want to find beauty to sate my own soul, not anyone else's.” 

”And looking for that you’ll do what? Roam the desert until you die of thirst and exhaustion and think, lovely, now I’ve made up for my sins? Don’t be thickheaded, Varice, listen to me and take what you’re due.” 

She doesn’t even have to search for a fitting response; she did a lot of thinking those days in the healing wing, and she knows what she wants and how to get it. 

“I think you, of all people, might understand me when I ask for the right to make my own choice.” 

Daine pauses at that, and, after thinking about it, has to laugh herself. 

“Then you have it. For what little it’s worth—“ and Daine looks taller, somehow, copper fire weaving around her “—go with my blessing, Varice of Carthak.” 

“Thank you,” replies Varice politely, but her thoughts swirl far ahead. Somewhere in the distance is the Roof of the World, and from what she foggily remembers from her natural history courses, wonders lie ahead there like none she’s ever seen. If nothing else, she’ll be able to see snow again. She’s missed snow, all these years. 

As the smoky image of Daine fades, all she can see is her future, limitless, before her.


End file.
